Four First Kisses
by Victoria to Worthing
Summary: Clairecentric. Each chapter focusing on a different relationship in her life. Most of the kisses are NOT shippy or romantic! Lots of characters! Actual pairings is a little ClaireZach. Season One focused, a bit AU now.
1. Dad

When Mr. Nakamura had first given Claire to the Bennets, Sandra had fallen in love right away. She exclaimed over Claire's blonde curls, so much like her own, and her chubby cheeks, so adorable. She bought all the baby things she had never had a chance to buy before, and most of all, she cuddled Claire all day long. Every time Mr. Bennet came home, he found Claire in her new mother's lap, smiling and chuckling. Claire learned new words and cute baby tricks. Sandra loved having a little one to play with. (Mr. Bennet often wondered if this hungry maternal instinct was what drove his wife to spend so much time on Mr. Muggles. It made him wonder if he shouldn't have agreed to have more kids, like she'd wanted to even after Lyle. This secret guilt was the reason that he had never complained about her dog obsession.)

Claire called Sandra "Mama" almost from the first day she lived with them, but despite Sandra's best efforts, Claire refused to say "Dada" on command. Mr. Bennet wasn't home much, and when he was, he was tired out from a day that was much more difficult and complicated than he could ever explain to his little family. He would sit by his wife and daughter as they laughed and played, but the most he could usually manage to contribute was a wan smile and a few half-hearted comments.

This began to change the first time that he had to babysit alone. Sandra asked him to watch Claire on a Saturday so that she could finally get her hair done and a have a little time to run errands by herself in peace, and he couldn't refuse such a desperate-sounding request. He found himself on his own for several hours, somehow completely lost in his own house. It didn't even look like his house anymore, what with all the baby trappings. He decided to make the best of it and began playing with Claire, trying to remember what almost-two-year-olds liked to do.

He built block towers. He rocked baby dolls. He made stuffed animals talk and dance. He had tickle wars. He changed diapers. He finagled oatmeal and crackers into Claire's evasive mouth. Altogether, he had a day that was easily as tough as any of his usual days at work.

At the end of the afternoon, just a few minutes before Sandra was supposed to get home, he laid Claire down on the couch for her nap. (He knew that she usually took naps in her own room, but he had to do work on the computer in the living room, and he felt like he would worry about her if he left her where he couldn't see her.)

He had just gotten absorbed in the file open on his screen when he felt a tap on his knee. He looked down and saw that Claire had sneaked off the couch and was now sitting under his desk, practically on top of his shoe.

"What is it, Claire?" he asked, unable to keep from smiling at her intent stare.

She replied with a question. It was only one word, but it was clearly a question. "Dada?"

"Yes?" Then he realized what she had said, and what she meant. She was asking if he _was_ her dad—the man her mother said he was, who would take care of her, and love her. Although he had been hiding from it, he knew the answer.

"Yes, Claire-bear, Dada's here." He pulled her out from under the desk and set her in his lap, and she laid her little head against his shoulder. He leaned down and kissed her blonde curls (the first kiss he had given her, come to think of it). He knew that there was no going back now.

When Sandra came home, she found her husband absorbed in work as usual, but this time, his daughter was nestled in his lap, sound asleep. When he looked up from the computer and put his finger over his lips to shush her, she smiled, seeing that Claire had finally found her place in the family—under her father's protection, loved and safe.


	2. Zach

They had been brought back together by a project. Discovering and documenting Claire's power, keeping a secret, working together. Actions. But what Zach loved most of all was when they were together, doing nothing special.

This most often occurred when they were supposed to be doing homework. They would get together on nights when they had a hard assignment due and Claire didn't have cheer practice or some social event with the cool kids. They would sit on the floor, because the desk only fit one person, and both of them sitting on the bed seemed kind of awkward. They would start out studying, quizzing each other or asking questions about the material, but then someone (usually Claire) would bring up something else. They would make fun of people at school, then Zach would remember a video he wanted to show her online, then Claire would make him listen to a radio song that he hated, so he would get revenge by playing the most scattered indie post-rock song he could find. They would laugh and talk and tease, and Zach would think, _This is just what it was like before everything changed. This is why we're friends._

The strangest study tangent came one day when they were studying for a history test. They were working industriously, but then, for once, it was Zach who got bored. He looked around his room for distraction and found his video camera, always his favorite toy. He grabbed it, checked that there was tape in it, and clicked it on. It was time for a game of paparazzi.

"So, Claire," he said in an affected interviewer voice. "Is it true that you were seen making out with Josh Michaels in the cafeteria?"

"What?" She looked up from her notes, shocked, then saw his camera and his evil grin. "Oh, no comment, dah-ling," she said, attempting an Audrey Hepburn imitation, flipping her hair over her shoulder and posing like a snooty starlet.

"Are you planning to adopt any random foreign kids, like Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt?"

"Actually, I'm planning on putting Lyle up for adoption. I doubt anyone would want him, though." She grinned her bratty Claire grin, the same one she'd had ever since he met her—the one he never saw her wear around her new friends.

"I'm sick of being the celebrity. I'm going to interview you now." She grabbed the camera out of his hands. "So, tell me something shocking. Let's make an _edgy documentary_." She giggled, ruining the edginess right away.

"Something shocking, um… I hate cheerleaders."

"Hey!" She reached around the camera to punch his shoulder. "I said shocking, not insulting."

"OK, fine…" He got a sudden inspiration that he somehow couldn't resist. "I haven't been kissed since third grade."

"Really?" She peered around the camera, her face disbelieving, but still kind. "Wait… didn't _I_ kiss you in third grade?"

Zach felt a blush rising into his cheeks. "Well, you should know, shouldn't you?"

"Yeah, I totally did. Wow." Her smile was vague and recollecting now. "I kind of forgot about that."

_I didn't_, he thought, but didn't say. "It was behind the swingset while we were playing tag. Torrid, huh?"

She laughed. "Sizzling." She looked thoughtful for a moment. "You know, I don't think it even counts as a first kiss if it's before you're in middle school."

"Really? That sucks." Why had he even brought this up? He didn't need to emphasize how out of the high school social scene he was. Claire already knew that.

Before he had time to speak again, he was silenced by Claire, who leaned toward him, tilted the camera at them, and pressed her lips to his, just once, quickly. He was stunned.

"What was that for?"

Her grin had become a gentler smile. "So you won't have to tell that shocking secret to anyone else."

"Oh, well, um, thanks. So, we should study, right?" He didn't know what to say. He didn't want to ask why she had done it. The answer might disappoint him, or it might please him in all kinds of ways that he didn't want to be pleased.

"Oh, right." She turned the camera off and went back to her books, and he followed suit. They were unusually quiet for the rest of the night, but the next day, they acted normal, pretending that nothing had happened.

A few months later, the Haitian erased his memories, and that strange night was lost. A few months after _that_, he was looking through his old tapes and found that one. He realized all over again how much he had lost when he lost his memories of Claire, and how much he wouldn't have now that she was gone.

At least they'd always have their first kiss—both of them, actually.


	3. The Petrellis

Claire's first meeting with her grandmother is interrupted by several telephone calls. Despite the fact that she is kind of old and matronly, Mrs. Petrelli seems to have a lot of things to discuss with a lot of important people.

Between the phone calls and the nurturing, grandmotherly questions that are made surreal by their abruptness, Claire finds out a few facts at last. Nathan Petrelli is her bio-dad. Peter, her hero, is his brother. (Peter, cute, young, brave Peter—her uncle? There's a thought.) Mrs. Petrelli won't explain how long she's been working with the Haitian, or how she got into contact with him in the first place. She just smiles and shakes her head, saying something polite and insubstantial about "connections."

Claire wonders if her new family is in the Mafia.

Between the phone calls, Claire is left alone with the Haitian, who is being silent in a way that is somehow particularly accusatory. (Claire has never met one person that can be silent in so many different ways.)

"I'm sorry I took your stuff." (She's not, really, and he smirks in a way that lets her know that he knows that.)

"You should be. It was dangerous. You're lucky things turned out so well."

"This is things turning out 'well'? You're sure?"

"Why don't you try trusting me, Claire? Your father did."

"Do you mean… Nathan? Or…"

"No. Your father."

She feels tears fill her eyes, a strange reaction to having her own heart's words echoed out loud, but she blinks the tears away when her grandmother reappears, promising answers later, but first dinner, a place to sleep, some new clothes in the morning. They eat in the dining room, a three-course meal. Her grandmother is every bit the socialite, asking polite and friendly questions. Claire talks about school and cheerleading, hemming and hawing when her family or Zach comes up. It's hard to decide whether it hurts more to talk about them or to edit them out.

That night her grandmother shows her to her bedroom ridiculously early. First Claire thinks that it's because her grandmother has unrealistic ideas about a high schooler's bedtime. Then she realizes that it's probably to get her out of the way.

That cynical thought feels strange when Mrs. Petrelli gives her a kiss on the cheek before she closes the bedroom door. It's an awkward, obligatory kiss, but a well-meant one, and Claire gives her a little smile that dies as soon as she hears the door click.

She meets Nathan the next day. He comes in walking quickly, his handsome face looking tired and worn. She is peeking out of the guest room and he doesn't see her as he steps into his mother's study.

They come to find her a few minutes later. She's sitting on the bed, expecting them, having set herself up in the pose of a girl who wasn't eavesdropping five minutes ago, or crying a half-hour before that.

Nathan smiles, charming, articulate, a politician to the core. "Claire. I've been looking forward to this." He holds his hand out like he's going to shake hers, then realizes the strange context and sets it on her shoulder in a fatherly way instead.

"Really? You didn't seem to mind Meredith talking you out of meeting me in Texas." He looks shocked, and she decides to go for broke. "I threw the rock."

"Oh." He looks annoyed for a moment, then worried, then he chuckles. "I guess I can't blame you."

"A rock?" Mrs. Petrelli echoes.

"Don't worry about it, Mom." He's getting Claire off the hook—trying to make her grateful, make them be on the same team. He's good at this. "So how do you like New York so far?"

"I haven't really seen much of it yet. I guess it's cool." She wonders if she's allowed to leave the apartment.

"That's a shame. It's a great city. We were just going to have coffee. Do you want some?" He's offering her coffee like she's an adult, which makes her happy even as she realizes that it's calculated. He's _very_ good.

They end up sitting around in the den, each sitting as straight and poised as mannequins—the Petrellis from the habit of being in the public eye, Claire from self-consciousness. Nathan asks the same questions that his mother did—school, hobbies, a little about her "adoptive" family. His mother speaks up from time to time, giving an answer before Claire can, showing that she was listening. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Nathan tells Claire about his wife and his two little boys, about his campaign. He mentions Peter once, but doesn't go into it further, despite the eager look that Claire knows must be on her face.

The visit is not much like family time. It's not even much like a friendly chat. It's more like a college interview or a weird blind date. But when it's over Nathan gives her a hug, and she feels him, tall and sturdy and secretly shy, trying to do the right thing. She hugs him back, only half-forcing herself too, and she surprises herself by feeling a sudden wish that he would kiss her on top of the head the way her real dad used to do before she went to bed every night. She feels pathetic and traitorous at the thought, but the ghost-kiss lingers in her hair for the rest of the day, every time she thinks back to the strange morning.

She gets the kind of family welcome she has always dreamed of when Peter comes home a week later. Mrs. Petrelli is out to lunch, but Nathan is sitting in the apartment, looking at the door. She doesn't know what he's waiting for until Peter's key rattles in the door. He flings it open so fast that it bangs against the wall.

"Nathan!" he cries when he sees his brother. "I have so much to tell you. I…" He trails off when he sees her in the hallway. "_Claire?_" His tone is shocked, but his face lights up with unquestioning happiness.

"Hi," she says, awkward and silent as he stumbles across the room to stand in front of her, grabbing her hands like an old friend.

"What are you doing here? Are you OK?" She notices that his hair is cut short, and a horizontal scar mars his forehead. She wonders what has happened to her hero while he was away.

Nathan speaks up. "Peter, this is why I wanted you to meet me here. I guess you're already acquainted with my daughter."

"Your—what?" Peter whips his head around to look at his brother. (Claire imagines that the gesture would have been a little more impressive if he still had his long hair to flip.) "Since when? I mean, wow." He's shocked to speechlessness for a moment, then he turns back to Claire, his sweet, crooked grin reclaiming his face. "Well, I guess I should say welcome to the family, huh?" He pulls her into a bearhug, ruffling her hair like she's a little kid. Later, she wonders what he's been through that's making him act this way, rushed and excited and brave to the brink of madness, but right then, she only feels happy that finally, a member of the Petrelli family has had an unmixedly happy reaction to meeting her. When he pulls back from the hug, he plants a kiss on her forehead, a resounding smack that makes her laugh and makes him blush, while Nathan raises his eyebrows in his trademark cynical amusement.

"So, now that we're all acquainted, you want to tell me what's been going on, Peter?" he asks, restoring order.

"Sure." His face is so eager and resolved—a man on a mission.

"Claire, maybe you should--" Nathan begins, but Peter interrupts him.

"She can hear. She's going to save the world with me, remember?" He smiles at her and pulls her headlong into the inner circle. Whether she likes it or not, she's in the Petrelli family now—secrets and all.


	4. Claude

Claire is pretty sure that she would have an easier time adjusting to her new life if she had more to do with herself. She can't call anyone. She can't enroll in school, or even go out in public much, because it might draw the attention of either Nathan's scandal-seeking campaign opponents or her dad's mysterious company. Her grandmother and Nathan are kind, but they're both busy. Peter is wonderful; she feels like she lives her life waiting for his visits. But he's busy, too, with mysterious training and world-saving activities that he tells her about, but never shows her. She pesters him—what's it going to hurt to let her come with him? After all, it's basically _impossible_ for her to get hurt. But he just pushes her hair out of her face (something he does a lot since he lost his own flowing locks) and tells her that his activities are risky and secretive, that his mysterious mentor is a jerk, and then, he says the thing that always wins her over.

"If someone finds out where you are, they could take you away from us. I know it sucks, but you need to hide." His eyes are shadowed with worry, sweet with concern, and she can't argue with them.

She sighs and agrees and spends her life fuming on the couch in miserable safety.

Her only recourse from boredom is the Haitian. She asks him once why he's still around. (She sounds kind of rude and is not sure if she minds—provoking him is one of her few forms of entertainment). He tells her that her grandmother wants him around to be her bodyguard, a link to the operations of the mysterious agency pursuing her, and an insurance policy in case someone finds out anything incriminating.

"So as long as you stay here, I do, too," he finishes. He has no problem entertaining himself. He must have had lots of free time in his old life, in between subduing his victims, of course. He watches TV or uses one of the Petrellis' many computers, sometimes, but more often he reads and listens to music full of drumbeats that sound like voodoo spells. Claire finds herself slowly gravitating toward the room he is in. She may have rebelled against him in the past, but right now, he's her partner in house arrest.

That day he is sitting up straight at the end of the couch, his thick book held primly in front of him. She's sprawled at the opposite end, reading a magazine. She can't seem to concentrate on an article, or find a comfortable posture. She is yearning to stretch her legs straight out and lean her head against the arm of the sofa, but the couch is a bit too short for her to do so without bumping into the Haitian's legs. She squirms around, trying to find a moment's comfort.

After she changes position three times in one minute, a dark hand suddenly darts out and lands on one of her bare feet. (She's always barefoot now. What does she need shoes for anymore?) Embarrassed, she hesitantly meets the Haitian's steady gaze.

"Claire," he says in his gentle, firm voice. "Please stop moving or sit somewhere else." Before the words can take on a tone of harshness in her mind, his actions contradict them. He smiles, just a little, and pulls her feet toward him, letting her slide into the position she'd been secretly wanting for the past half-hour. She returns his smile with interest and returns to her magazine, finding her mind a little more at peace now. (She secretly relishes every time his hand brushes her toes on its way to turning a page. Although she'd never admit it, she's starving to be touched these days. All of the good morning hugs and goodnight kisses that she'd taken for granted at home are nothing but wistful memories now.)

Her mood is only improved when the door opens a few minutes later and Peter walks in. She jumps off the couch so quickly that her magazine falls to the floor with a ruffle of pages.

"Hey. Don't look so disappointed to see me," he teases. "Hey, man," he says to the Haitian. (Mrs. Petrelli knows the Haitian's name, but she refuses to tell it to them. She says that its up to him when and to him he reveals it.)

"Hey! You're here!" Claire says, hating the desperate happiness in her voice.

"Yep. And I have a surprise."

"Yeah?"

"We're going out."

"Really?" (She hates that her voice sounds like she just won the lottery. She _used_ to go outside every day.)

"We're going to see Claude."

"Your evil Jedi master?"

"That's the one. Let's go."

Claire squeals with joy and runs to get all the things she hasn't needed in the past few days—shoes, a jacket, a shirt that she actually likes. When she runs back into the living room, Peter is still wearing his jacket and standing by the door, knowing that she won't want to waste a minute longer in the apartment.

Just as they're stepping into the hall, Peter turns back. "Is this OK? That she's leaving?" he asks in the direction of the couch. The Haitian looks up calmly.

"I'm not her mother. Claire can do what she wants."

"I'll take good care of her," Peter promises.

As soon as the door closes, Claire blurts out, "Why did you ask him for permission?"

"I dunno. I just know he wants to protect you. I kind of felt like I was on his turf just taking you like that."

"So I'm turf, huh? That's great. Just great."

They tease each other all the way to the old building, where Peter grows suddenly quiet. "I wonder if Claude is already up there, or if he's going to try to test my reflexes."

"Your reflexes?"

"By popping out of invisibility and kicking my ass so that I have to use my powers to fight back." Peter tries to sound annoyed, but Claire can see his mouth quirking up at one corner in his quintessential smirk. She thinks about Lyle and his friends fighting each other in the backyard in Odessa and wonders if boys ever grow up.

They reach the top of the building unmolested, but the rooftop appears to be abandoned except for a few pigeons. This assumption is proved false when a tall, scruffy man suddenly appears next to the cages.

"Who's your lady friend?" Claire is surprised at first by his abrupt appearance, then by his strong British accent… then by a strange sense of familiarity.

"This is Claire, the cheerleader, remember?" Peter talks like Claire is a celebrity, someone that his friend must know, and Claire treasures up the sense of importance to bask in later, when she's home in the beautiful, cold apartment.

"Ah, yes, the healer. Nice to finally meet you." Claude crosses the roof to stand in front of them. "Where did you say you were from?" He has piercing eyes that make Claire feel like she's just been engaged in a staring contest against her will.

"Texas," Peter fills in, showing that Claude is one of the few people in New York that she can trust with her real information.

"Texas…" Claude is still staring, and Claire feels the strange impulse to hide behind Peter like a shy child would behind its mother. "I think I know you."

"How?" Peter asks. Claire doesn't say anything. She's thinking, rifling through memories. Her search is ended by Claude's next words.

"You're Meredith's baby. Bennet's daughter. I knew you'd manifest eventually. I wondered how long my old partner could hide something like that."

Claire felt her heart start pounding at the surprise of someone actually acknowledging the things she knew—her mother, her family, her father's job. "I remember you."

"You bloody well should—I gave you enough gum and candy bars when I came over to act like your dad's friendly co-worker in the paper business." He chuckles wryly.

Claire laughs, even though she feels a little bit like crying or pinching herself to see if she's dreaming. "Paper business, huh?" She sobers instantly when she realizes an important question she needs to ask. "How did you get out?"

"Being invisible helps. So does being a hermit. Why do you ask? Does your dad finally want to retire?"

"I don't even know what he wants now. He lost some of his memories." She looks down at her hands, tangling her fingers together. "He just wanted to protect me."

"I hope he finally realized that you're the only good thing he'll ever get out of that place. Unless he's become fond of bullet scars and mindwipes since I knew him."

Claire forces a smile, trying to focus on the words instead of the images they brought to mind—her dad, in danger, taking bullets for her, her world falling down. Her smile dies, and words rush out of her mouth. "I'm _not_ a good thing. I ruined my family. My dad got his mind wiped _for me_, so I could get away. He got shot, for me. My mom's head is all screwed up from having so many memories about me erased. I made things worse for everyone."

"Claire, don't think that," Peter blurts out, putting his arm around her shoulders, but she shakes him off. He doesn't know what she's done. He doesn't know the life she's lost. He doesn't understand. His comfort is nice, but it's not what she needs.

Claude is silent, his weathered face frozen in an expression of indeterminate emotion. Then, as quickly as he materialized on the rooftop, he steps toward Claire and grabs her chin in his hand, leaning down to look into her eyes. "It's not your fault that you have this power. And it's not your fault that he loves you that much. With you being what you are, and he being what he is, nothing else could have happened. Don't make his sacrifice useless by ruining your life with stupid guilt." He holds her eyes for a moment, then releases his grasp and steps back. Claire lets out a gasp and realizes that she had been holding her breath.

Claude's voice changes with his next words. "Peter—want to get on with training? Maybe you can actually get something right when your source is sitting ten feet away." He grins, wolfish and cruel, and his sincerity seems to have vanished.

The rest of the visit consist of Claude browbeating (and occasionally _actually_ beating) Peter into manifesting and controlling his various powers. Claire wonders at first why Claude has enough expertise to be anyone's teacher, but then she thinks of his time with her dad and his company. He must have at least seen many examples of abilities—or at least the consequences of powers gone wrong.

Finally, Peter walks over to where Claire is sitting and offers her a hand to pull her to her feet. "Seen enough abuse yet? We should be getting back. I'm going to try to turn us invisible on the way home." When Claire stands, he pulls her closer to him and whispers in her ear. "Are you OK?"

"I'm fine." Oddly, she's not lying. Claude's words, although harsh, were effective. While Peter was learning to fight, she felt a little of her own fighting spirit come back.

She lets her new energy propel herself over to Claude, where she uses his own trick of surprise to throw her arms around his neck and kiss his wrinkled cheek. "Bye. Thank you."

"No problem. I guess I'll have to give more pretty girls advice from now on." He smiles a softer smile than he'd worn all afternoon, and she suddenly sees the face that she remembers from her childhood.

Peter bids Claude goodbye in a more reserved manner and leads Claire back down the flights of stairs to the street.

"Well, I can't believe things went so smoothly for you," he exclaims as they step into the waning evening light. "The first time I met Claude, he made fun of me. Then he hit me with a stick. You must lead a charmed life, Claire Bennet."

She lets his teasing words mix with her thoughts and make her feel blessed for a moment. "I must. It has you in it."

He pulls her over to plant two kisses on her temple. One for him, one to make up for the one his brother won't give her that night. She accepts the offering and imagines the other ones laid on her altar today—Claude's smile on his face that's clearly unused to it, all the secret kindnesses that the Haitian's hands speak of when his voice is silent.

For a moment, in this new life made of loss, Claire lets herself be happy.


End file.
